


Must Have Been Magic

by Catchclaw



Series: Mental Mimosa [284]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Aggressive Steve, Arguing, Love Potion/Spell, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Semi-Public Sex, Sort Of, Top Steve Rogers, Totally A-Ok With It Tony
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-26
Updated: 2019-07-26
Packaged: 2020-07-20 07:38:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19988515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: Everything’s fine until Steve starts taking off his clothes.





	Must Have Been Magic

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Love spell. Prompt from this [generator](https://colormayfade.tumblr.com/generator).

Everything’s fine until Steve starts taking off his clothes.

Ok, everything’s not _fine_ , technically: Tony’s hoarse from yelling and Steve is the color of beets and anyone in the vicinity who didn’t know they were pissed at each other, have been since the Quinjet swept in and plucked them out of the Albanian wilderness, well--let’s just say there’s not anyone like that left.

They’re in the briefing room near the hanger because Tony was trying to act like a professional and not ream Steve the second they stepped off the plane. They’ve got new kids on the block now, Ant Man and Spidey and that take-no-shit Wasp, so it would be nice to, you know, pretend like they have their shit together as a team. As far as Tony’s concerned, screaming at Steve (and vice versa) is what keeps said shit in one piece; they’ve tried the not talking and not communicating thing and boy howdy, did that fuck them up. So they talk about their disagreements now, albeit in raised voices (Steve) and flailing arms (Tony), but they try not to do it in mixed company. Key word: _try._

But sometimes Steve is just too puritanical for Tony to stomach all the way back to base, so today’s contretemps had started in furious whispers at the back of the plane and smouldered until they were wheels down and then and only then had Tony poked Captain Self-Righteous in the chest and hissed: “You, me, briefing room. Right the fuck now!”

Which had only made Steve madder, of course.

“I don’t appreciate being ordered around, Tony,” he barks the second the door to the briefing room closes.

“Yeah. Sucks, don’t it? Maybe you should have thought of that before you pulled an audible in the middle of an op, Cap!”

“What we were doing wasn’t working! A new strategy was called for!”

“I’m sorry, who was on point today?”

Steve flips off his helmet and chucks it on the table. “You were.”

“Yep. So instead of calling for the ball yourself, Namath, maybe you should have, oh, I don’t know, given me a heads up and made a recommendation?”

“Recommendation? Get real, Tony. When’s the last time you listened to one of those?” Steve snorts and unbuckles his harness, shrugged out of his shield. “Correction, when’s the last time you didn’t take great delight in ignoring one, huh?”

“I see, so you’re a mindreader now, is that it?”

“No, you’re just goddamn predictable, that’s all.”

“I’m predictable? You’re the one who’s always preaching teamwork and collaboration, and yet the second a thing doesn’t go the way you want it, you reach right over and grab the stick!”

Steve reaches for the catch in his armor. “Teamwork goes both ways, you know. Sometimes teamwork means recognizing that I know better.”

“That you--!”

There were more words coming, more that Tony had lined up to follow, but it’s hard to talk suddenly, what with the armor falling and Steve peeling and then him standing there not three feet from Tony no longer wearing a, uh. A shirt. 

It’s not like Tony’s never seen the All-American six pack before, even once or twice in close quarters, but usually there were knives involved or evildoers of some sort, so he’d never had a chance to study Le Rogers without the fear of rapidly approaching death and holy god, he thought, goggled, that was probably good. Because for all his pig-headedness, for all of his incredible ability to rub Tony the wrong way, Steve’s gorgeous in the way that the sun is bright, you know? Fundamentally, thoroughly, _blindingly_. Throw in the helmet-mussed hair and the red cheeks of indignation and the whole package gets Tony thinking in the color of swoon.

And then the man starts futzing with his pants.

“Um,” Tony says weakly. “Cap? What the hell are you doing?”

Steve looks up at him, wide-eyed, and now that his pissiness had taken a backseat, Tony could see what he hadn’t before: there was a weird fire in Steve’s eyes, some shit that made the blue _blue_ , and what had looked like pink cheeks was actually general aura of flush from Steve’s hairline over the hills and valleys of his chest down to the line of his--

“I’m hot,” Steve says petulantly as he--yep, oh god, yep--pulls the suit from his legs and unfastens his boots. “Always get hot when we argue, Tony.”

Ok, that’s a sentence to unpack another day. A day when Tony’s not standing across from Steve Rogers wearing nothing but a very (very) tight pair of shorts. Shit.

“Sure,” he says, aiming for something blase, “but you don’t usually lose your kit because of it.”

“Oh, but I do. After it’s over, though. I go back to my quarters and strip off and get a hand on myself.” A long-lashed flutter. "Think about you.”

If Tony was a good man, a noble one like the blond stalwart in front of him, he’d leave right then. Splutter something, wave his arms a bit, and run off for the hills.

But he’s not noble and he’s not good, so far as Steve Rogers is concerned. He’s always wanted. Always, from day, nay hour one. He’s never let himself follow that particular thought any farther than his right hand and a very long, hot shower. They’re teammates, he and Cap. On a good day, they’re friends.

All the more reason he should be calling for a doc, a detox, something, but clearly Steve is straight up out of his mind: hoodoo’d or whammied or drunk or shellshocked or catastrophically high--but also hard, jesus fuck, is he. Hard and moving towards him, reaching for him, purring in this beautiful, uber un-Rogers way.

“I’m so hot,” he says again. This time the words fall over Tony’s face. “Feel like I’m burning up, Tone. Need your hands on me. See?”

And then he’s tugging at Tony’s wrists and planting Tony’s palms on his hip and his chest and Tony is weak, Tony is greedy, Tony suddenly wants him so _bad_.

If he was a good man, the kind they make star-spangled movies about, he wouldn’t turn his face to meet Steve’s. He wouldn’t open his mouth. He wouldn’t stroke every inch of skin he could reach and lap up Steve’s orchestra of needy sounds. He wouldn’t moan when Steve’s hands catch his ass and squeeze just this side of too hard.

“Yeah?” Steve whispers against his lips. “You’re hot too, aren’t you?”

The air feels like it’s imploding, each drop of oxygen its own pool of heat, and Tony’s drowning in each and every one. “Oh, _fuck_.”

“Mmmm. Please.”

Later, what happens next will be a flurry, a cross-cut set of Polaroids that if he thinks about, Tony can’t actually fathom:

His knees on the floor, the smell of Steve’s body, the sound he makes as Tony peels down those impossible briefs;

Steve’s back against the table, his breathing wet and ragged, his hands buried in Tony’s hair;

His palms slipping on slick wood, his forehead pressed to it, the feel of Steve’s tongue in his ass.

And the strongest of them all, the fiercest: Steve’s mouth on his shoulder, his chest ablaze at Tony’s back, the gorgeous, hungry hitch of his hips. His hand is on Tony’s cock and Tony’s clinging to the edge of the table and it feels so good to have Steve inside him he wants to fucking scream.

And then he does, because to hell with reason, and he’s coming all over Steve’s fingers, the table, pulse after pulse and he still feels incomplete and then Steve is grunting in his ear, fucking in hard and hard and deep and only when Steve whimpers and lets it all go does the sweet tension in Tony’s body finally release.

It feels like he comes again, another burst of white out on the table, but that can’t be, right? He can’t. It must be the hoodoo, whatever’s infecting Steve--he must have caught some of it, too. But hell, god bless the magic, because it feels so fucking good.

“Oh, god,” Steve moans in his ear, because the bastard’s still coming, apparently. “Oh, fuck, Tony, yes, _yes_.”

And maybe that does it for him a little, again, too.

The next thing he knows, they’re in a wet heap on the floor, half on top of Tony’s hastily-removed clothes. They’re clinging to each other. It’s a different kind of hot.

“So,” he says when he can speak again, when he wants to, “um, Cap. What the hell was that?”

Steve laughs in his ear, a noise like good whiskey. “If I have to tell you, I must have done something wrong.”

“Oh, come on. Don’t be a smart ass. You went all weird stripper Barbie on me!”

“Stripper Barbie--?”

“Were you whammied or something? Did you pick a funny-looking flower while we were out there? That’s some serious Fairy Tale country out that way, you know. Lots of the big myths and stuff got started out there.”

Steve’s arms go tighter. “You’re babbling.”

“I’m not babbling, Rogers, I’m deducting. Er, I’m trying to figure this out.”

“What is the this, again?”

“Steve, you threw yourself at me. _I touch myself when I think about you?_ I mean, that was some pure Skinemax shit.”

“I have no idea what that means.”

God, he’s infuriating. But it’s a lot harder to be mad when he’s naked. “Um, _I always get hot when we argue, Tony_? That isn’t you.”

“Hmmm. So you thought I was under the influence of something?”

Yeah, like a love spell, you know. I thought maybe you ate an enchanted mushroom. Forgot to each lunch before the smashy smashy and so picked a vegan snack on the go, you know.”

Steve bites at his throat, very gently. Laps at it a little. Says: “You thought I was high on magic and/or a mushroom and you had sex with me anyway?”

Shit shit shit. “Um, yeah. Yeah, I did.” Tony’s head does a double take. “Wait. Does that mean you _weren’t_?”

“Mmmmm.” Tony can practically feel the smug. “No. Believe it or not, that was all me.”

“Well, all you is very cheesy, Rogers. Also not fucking subtle at all.”

Steve’s hips rock against his ass. “I wasn’t feeling subtle,” he growls. “Sometimes I hate subtle. Sometimes I think the only thing you understand is a shield upside the head--and believe me, I’ve been tempted.”

“So you thought you’d whip your dick out in the middle of an argument and I’d just, what, fall to my knees?”

“Isn’t that what happened?” Steve chuckles. “Except, as I recall, you’re the one who actually whipped it out.”

“But--” Tony’s brain is still not in full gear; not helping that blood’s rushing back merrily towards his dick. “But I--I don’t know if you noticed, Ron Jeremy, but there were some things happening with me that haven’t happened since I was 15.”

Steve sighs, a full on-luxury sound that Tony would like to sink into, thanks. “Oh, hell. Did I make you come more than once, Tone? It felt like it, but I wasn’t sure.”

“Apparently.”

“Uh huh. So let me get this straight: you came so hard on my cock that it must have been magic, is that it?”

“I hate you.”

“You want me.” Long fingers tumble over his hip, tease. “You’d take me again right now, if I wanted.”

Not even a question. “Hell yes.”

“Here, on the floor. Desperate, like a couple of kids whose parents aren't home."

“You like the idea of sneaking around, Cap? And here I took you for the candlelight and silk sheets type.”

“I like that too. But you have no idea how many times I’ve been stuck in one of your damn briefings and spent the whole time daydreaming about what it would be like to shut you up with my tongue.”

“Or your cock.”

A growl, a fist around Tony’s dick. “Yeah. That, too.”

Tony’s head falls back. “So next time you’re in here, tired of listening to me talk, you can think about this instead. About dirting me up and then tossing me on the carpet and having your way with me again.”

“My way with you? Now who’s cheesy?”

“Steve.”

“Yes, Tony?”

“Shut up and fuck me again."


End file.
